<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Come A Little Bit Closer (You’re My Kind Of Man) by FlashMountain</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24894790">Come A Little Bit Closer (You’re My Kind Of Man)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashMountain/pseuds/FlashMountain'>FlashMountain</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>College AU, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Modern AU, OR IS IT, Pining, Unrequited Love, half Italian Steve, so much swearing, some Robin/heather as a treat, touchstarved boys but in a chill way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:48:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,419</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24894790</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashMountain/pseuds/FlashMountain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He should’ve bought a fuckin’ giftcard. Should’ve bought a stupid shirt or shoved ten bucks in an envelope and called it a day. He couldn’t keep it in his pants enough to buy a normal fucking gift to his normal fucking friend. </em>
</p><p>//</p><p>Steve is the birthday boy, Billy pines, and Robin <em> can’t even </em> with both of them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>302</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Come A Little Bit Closer (You’re My Kind Of Man)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightsUpInTheNorth/gifts">LightsUpInTheNorth</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was supposed to be a prompt ficlet, and really spiraled. Big time. </p><p>Enjoy this mess of a modern AU, that I did enjoy writing even though a lot of people have had to listen to my agony while writing it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve Harrington’s always been affectionate.</p><p>It’s a <em> thing </em> , the way he pats an arm or hugs a friend or slings an arm over a shoulder. <em> I’m practically Italian, </em> is what he says, after he presses a kiss to someone’s cheek, all easy and smiley and <em> Steve </em>.</p><p>It was endearing, when he was five and greeted uncles and business partners with their pretty wives with hugs and big smiles and big eyes.</p><p>It <em> wasn’t </em> , by the time he was twelve, lanky and big toothed and still touchy. It wasn’t, by the time it was important for him to be a <em> man </em>.</p><p>By the time he was 18, fresh outta high school with grades he doesn’t wanna talk about, on his way to college with the money his parents had in an account since he before he could walk, he kinda just thought <em> fuck you. </em> Fuck his dad and his <em> you’re a man now, Steven. </em> fuck Tommy who pulled away from a hug on his fourteenth birthday ‘cause <em> that’s kinda gay now, Stevie. </em></p><p>It’s just- it’s <em> him </em> , the touches. ‘Cause he’s never been good with words. Never been good at showing his people what they <em> mean </em> to him through anything else than touch and hugs and smiles.</p><p>And he’s not gonna pretend it’s not ‘cause of his dad and friends who aren’t really friends and ‘cause of being afraid of <em> something </em> his whole damn life.</p><p>So, he’s eighteen goin’ on nineteen, with Robin in the passenger seat, Hawkins in the rearview window and San Francisco ahead of them. He’s yelling <em> fuck you </em> out the window, laughing along with Robin and her <em> yeah, dingus! </em> He’s got Robin who’s been telling him all summer ‘bout self acceptance and how it’s <em> okay </em> and how- how he doesn’t have to be afraid. They’ve got feel good music shaking the whole damn car, Robs phone connected ‘cause she doesn’t trust Steve with music.</p><p>They’re <em> free </em> . They’re free and they’re gonna go to <em> college </em>, and Steve doesn’t really think about how there’s gonna be a gym hall with Harrington slapped on it by the time he’s been there a semester or two, doesn’t think about how Robin’s there on a full damn ride.</p><p>And he gets to be affectionate, in that way of his. Gets to touch and smile and hug all sorts of people. And people like that shit, in college. Girls like it, drape themselves over him and pant out it’s <em> twenty-fucking-nineteen, guys who’re soft are so hot. </em></p><p>People <em> like </em> him, and he’s touchy and smiles and drawls out one or two of the words his mom taught him before he even knew English, and people fall to the damn ground, like he’s king again.</p><p>Billy Hargrove hates it.</p><p>Billy Hargrove meets Steve Harrington (sees him, gets drawn to him like he’s some sorta magnet, one pretty little thing in the sea of people ‘round him) when he’s been at <em> USF </em> a week, and tries not to fall right into the confused rage rampant he went on a year or two ago, when his mom was <em> gone </em> and he was so fuckin’ confused and his <em> dad </em> kept- but he <em> doesn’t </em> , doesn’t slip right into that confusion ‘cause he knows better, and his mom’s <em> safe </em> , rehab doin’ better than anythin’ she could’ve done home, with him. With Neil. And he’s safe, too. Safe and <em> better </em> than that, better than letting that itching feelin’ choke him, suffocate him, when he sees him. Fuckin’ pretty boy without a name.</p><p>He’s come a <em> long </em> way, and <em> pretty boy </em> he sees at orientation with his cuffed chinos and big hair and AirPods and arm ‘round a girl who makes him feel like the rings on his fingers and the gold ‘round his neck aren’t that punk fuckin’ rock isn’t going to change that. Destroy his progress, his journey to self acceptance, or whatever the counselor he had to see for a month after he beat up fucking <em> Chad </em> that time in junior year said.</p><p>He doesn’t <em> do </em> anythin’, doesn’t have to, ‘cause those big eyes he figures out are brown way too fast don’t meet his, across the hall. He smiles at the girl he’d seen under his arm when she ends up in the same art history class as him, eyes catching at her necklace of two Venus symbols all twined together, and he smiles a little bigger. ‘Cause he’s come a <em> long </em> fuckin’ way. He knows himself, knows himself and kinda lets other people know him, too.</p><p>Lets Steve Harrington know him. He gets his name from Buckley, who’s sharp enough to tell him <em> you need </em> my <em> help, actually. </em> She introduces him to Steve Harrington, <em> he’s nicer than he looks </em> , who’s smiling real big, turtleneck tight under his <em> iets </em> shirt, one AirPod in the whole time like he’s not just listening to whatever the fuck Spotify puts on his <em> made for </em> . His name’s <em> Steve </em> , but Billy calls him pretty boy right to his face, gets a laugh outta him and a <em> look </em> from Robin. And he gets a hug, when Steve says <em> I gotta split </em> , when he heaved himself up outta the chair in the library, shoved a textbook that he never opened into his Eastpak. Gets a <em> real </em> one, two arms ‘round his middle, hair tickling his cheek, cologne that smells real-rich oozing offa’ Steve and onto him.</p><p>They’re <em> friends </em> , after that. They’re more than friendly and a whole lot more than Billy ever was to anyone, and he’s- he likes it. He likes havin’ friends, ‘cause college is <em> more </em> and it’s big and there’s not a lot of ‘em. Friends. Even though there’s people who know his name, chants it when he’s doin’ body shots off a girl who’s made eyes at him all night like his eyes haven’t been glued on- on <em> Steve </em>.</p><p>He’s too damn tired to waste energy on not acknowledging it. The Steve thing. ‘Cause it’s a fuckin’ <em> thing </em> , the way a touch will set him on fire, the way that big, dopey smile will melt him. It’s a problem. ‘Cause Steve keeps <em> touching </em> him. He’s weak for it. He’s weak for <em> Steve </em> , got a big fat fuckin’ crush on the first guy to touch him like he’s- like he’s <em> soft </em> . It’s different. It’s different when he knows what it means, the itching in his throat, the fuckin’ bubbling in his stomach. He knows it’s <em> okay </em>, tries to remember that it’s okay to feel like that, whenever Steve reaches out for a hug, whenever those lean fingers curl ‘round his bicep, pressing down onto muscle. It’s okay, even if it’s so damn stupid.</p><p>‘Cause Steve Harrington is straight. He’s straight and he’s the type of guy who gets panties dropped all ‘round him, even if he says <em> I’m not like that now, you shoulda seen me in high school. </em> He’s the type of soft that makes girls say <em> if only all guys. </em> He’ll go ‘round with his nails painted ‘cause that gets chicks begging him to fuck ‘em with those long, never worked a day, fingers. He’ll go ‘round hugging and kissing ‘cause he’s secure enough to do that, says all the girls who somehow know Steve Harrington even if they don’t share a single class with Steve <em> I really just wanna help kids, y’know? </em> Harrington. It’s not like Billy shares any with him, either.</p><p>He shares a friend who’s gayer than that hole in the wall he found a week or two in (the one with glitter all over and a tattoo studio in the back just for the hell of it, bar out front), with Steve Harrington. Shares a Lyft home from parties and shares those three dollar cookies from the library cafe with him too, sometimes.</p><p>It’s torture. It’s <em> torture </em> , sharing a buncha shit with a straight guy who caught his eye once and never really left. And he’s <em> nice </em>, he’s a rich asshole who smiles too big and too fuckin’ pretty, but he’s nice. He’s so damn nice, it makes it real easy to pretend.</p><p>Steve makes it so fuckin’ easy to pretend like <em> come over, Rob isn’t here. </em> means more than it does. It’s too easy, playin’ Steve’s lips pressed to his cheek in his head over and over and <em> over </em> . It’s so fuckin’ dumb, stretching out a second of too soft, always pink lips on his cheek, paired with a <em> ciao </em> , the way he gets when he’s <em> that </em> fuckin’ happy. Or just high enough. The way he gets with <em> everyone </em> . He pretends the corny fuckin’ emojis Steve puts in the captions of insta pics with them together are meant for him, pretends like it’s okay to sit and stare at Steve’s feed, phone almost slipping outta his grip ‘cause his palms sweat just from thinking about Steve Harrington. Steve Harrington who’s <em> straight </em> and fucked half the girls on campus even though he’s too nice to brag about it. Too fucking excruciatingly, <em> painfully- </em></p><p>“-nice, he really deserves this. So are you in? Jesus, are you listening, Hargrove?”, and he turns his phone face down real quick, ‘cause Buckley’s leaning forward, brows raised and hand shootin’ out to take <em> his </em> overpriced library iced coffee. She really doesn’t need to know that he’s been starin’ at <em> kingsteve’s </em> feed like a fuckin’ moron. And she’s been talking about it all day, like he wouldn’t be fuckin’ in on Steve Harrington’s birthday. Like he doesn’t trip over his damn feet every time Steve’s involved. </p><p>And Steve’s been not-really-whining about his birthday for weeks, all talk about growing old and responsibilities like he’s not barely legal. Been talking about how his parents sent him a check two months ago already, how it can buy him the booze he’s gonna drink <em> all alone </em> like he doesn’t know he’s got friends and bitches too eager to celebrate him all year ‘round. </p><p>He needs to make it a good one, for Steve. And it’s kinda out of spite at this point, ‘cause Buckley keeps bugging him about it like he’s not a <em> good </em> fucking friend. Just ‘cause he wants to mess up that pretty hair and tug on his tucked in sweaters or jerks off to his stupid face every night doesn’t mean he’s not a totally <em> good </em> , perfectly nice, <em> awesome- </em> </p><p>“<em> Billy! </em> ” And it’s a <em> curse </em>, the way Steve just shows up, stumbles in with too long legs and all clean Nikes and big, eye crinkling smiles. “I didn’t know you were coming, Rob said it was just us?”</p><p><em> Rob </em> smiles around <em> Billy’s </em> straw, teeth biting down, and there’s no way in hell he's touching his drink again. <em> Bitch </em>. </p><p>“He was here already, fuckin’ nerd.” And he was, but like, she doesn’t have to say it like that. Doesn’t have to spell out the <em> he’s been hanging around all day hoping you’d show, Stevie </em> . Not that she knows. Not that it’s <em> true </em> , ‘cause he’s been busy working and thinking and <em> not </em> hitting ‘like’ on pics from before Steve came here, when some asshole called <em> Tommy_H </em> with some chicks name in his bio called him <em> king </em> under every post. </p><p>“Okay, I’ll just leave, if you’re gonna be like that.” And he’s <em> not </em> , wouldn’t ever leave, ‘cause Steve’s wrapping his arms ‘round Robin, kinda slouching down to meet her ‘cause she’s not doin’ anything to help him and his always-full-on-hugs, and he knows he’s next. And he just- can’t really <em> stop </em> , swallows down every fuckin’ breadcrumb he can get. Hopes his hands aren’t too clammy. Or that his deo hasn’t worn off. Or that Steve’ll fucking <em> smell </em> the desperation on him. </p><p>“Awe come on, I just came here.” And he’s smiling around the words, all confident and <em> nice </em> and in a way that makes his insides all funny. <em> He’s so fucking gay </em> . And maybe Billy’s reaching for Steve before he even gets ‘round the table, hands twitching and <em> wanting </em>. But no one sees that, so it doesn’t matter, didn’t happen. </p><p>Steve hugs for real. Two arms around you, hair tickling your face, fingers splayed across knobs of your spine. He hugs <em> tight </em>, says hello with some kinda softness Billy’s never really seen before. </p><p>His sweater is soft against Billy’s thin t-shirt, against his forearms. And it smells clean and <em> Steve </em> and like his shitty apartment, which probably isn’t that fuckin’ clean. But it’s <em> good </em> (It’s not home. It <em> isn’t </em> . Even if it kinda feels like it). And it takes a lotta effort not to <em> collapse </em> into him, to keep straight- <em> yeah right, </em> posture right and jaw just enough clenched for Steve not to notice how he’s hiding a smile into the hair he’s never seen Steve cut. He can feel Steve breathe against him, breathe in <em> deep </em> , like his lime and whatever’s-cheapest deodorant smells that fuckin’ good. Steve smells <em> rich </em> , in that subtle way. And Billy knows he’s not like that, doesn’t really talk to his dad about companies and money and heritage, anymore. But he’s still got that cologne, a subtle one, rich and musky but not overwhelming. Nice. Too fucking <em> sexy </em>. </p><p>“It’s good to see you”, and it’s said right against his temple, lips brushing his skin, Steve’s smile etched into him. And it makes him shiver, all raw and fucked out from a <em> touch </em> like- like Steve doesn’t smear kisses over his cheek <em> all </em> the time (thirty-four times, so far). And he can’t even say anything back, nods all awkward and waits for Steve to pull pack. Gets a squeeze first, big hands pressing him <em> close </em> for a second, before letting go. One of those hands moving up to touch Billy’s hair, fix a curl, or mess it up. Billy’s not really paying attention. The hand moves over to Steve’s, raking through a fuckin’ mess, through strands that’re probably way too soft. </p><p>“You saw him <em> yesterday </em> ,” and he kinda forgot they weren’t alone, Robin leaning against the library table all dramatic, the <em> tap, tap, tap </em> of her cutdown nails bringing him back, back from this <em> bubble </em> Steve pulls him into. Steve just smiles, all <em> I know </em>. And it makes his stomach flutter, like he’s got butterflies all over. Like a total cliche. “What were you talking ‘bout, anyways?”</p><p>He lets Buckley lie somethin’ up, treats himself to some <em> stare at where Steve’s sweater is all bunched up </em> time. He’s earned it, okay? He didn’t even get to drink his own damn coffee. </p><p>He’s still staring when Steve starts bitching about some project or essay or <em> whatever </em> , ‘cause he likes to work more with his hands, y’know? Or actually go out and <em> do </em> stuff. Billy hates that the chick with Greek letters stamped across her hoodie ordering by the counter probably knows exactly how good Steve is with those hands. Whatever. </p><p>It’s probably <em> bad </em> , how he doesn’t even notice hours goin’ by without him doing shit, laptop untouched and eyes glued on Steve or the table or Steve’s fingers drumming patterns into that table. But Steve’s heaving himself up, saying something about <em> something </em> and Billy’s not really listening, ‘cause there’s a hand ruffling his hair, for sure fucking it up. His hands are warm, by now. And Steve’s got <em> big </em> hands, fingers all nimble and good and <em> hot </em> , carding through gold for a second before lingering. Always fucking <em> lingering </em> . There’s a “ <em> later </em> ” and he’s <em> gone </em> and Billy has to shake his head, a little. Just to shake some fuckin’ sense into himself. It’s fuckin’ pathetic. </p><p>“Holy fuck,” it’s Robin, shakin’ him outta Steve. Again. And she sounds like she can’t believe whatever she’s seein’, and she’s staring right at him. </p><p>“What?” And yeah, <em> what </em> ? She’s obnoxious. She’s probably the closest friend he’s ever had, if he doesn’t count Steve. And he doesn’t really want to count Steve goddamn Harrington as a friend. But it’s not like- <em> fuck </em>. It's not like he has to waste time on dreaming about bullshit. </p><p>“Absolutely nothing, Hargrove.” And it doesn’t sound like nothing, but she’s already talking about Steve’s day again, and it’s cute, how much she cares. It makes it okay for him to show that he cares a little, too. He cares too fuckin’ much, man. “So, you got any ideas for a gift?”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He should’ve bought a fuckin’ giftcard. Should’ve bought a stupid shirt or shoved ten bucks in an envelope and called it a day. He couldn’t keep it in his pants enough to buy a normal fucking gift to his normal <em> fucking </em> friend. </p><p>Two double shifts and too many <em> who needs lunch anyways </em> brought him the tickets. Economy class and shitty seats and inconvenient times don’t really matter, even though Steve’s probably been flying business with pretty views his whole damn life. ‘Cause they’re tickets <em> home </em>. </p><p>They’re shitty plane tickets to his shitty neighborhood, to the place he had to call home ‘cause of family dinners and <em> we can’t just leave honey </em> and <em> that slut is not your mother, Billy. </em> He’s got sweet memories, from home. From San Diego beaches and cracked pavement and boardwalks. He doesn’t really think about the bad ones, anymore. ‘Cause Neil’s gone, fucked off to fuckin <em> Muncie </em> or Indiana or <em> whatever </em> the fuck. Got a new wife and a new family and left his mom at some kinda center, fucked off into nowhere. It’s the only thing he’d ever thank him for. Fuck that. </p><p>San Diego is nice. It’s a <em> nice </em> gift. It’s gonna be so fucking <em> nice </em> and he’s not gonna make it into anything it isn’t ‘cause Steve doesn’t deserve that shit. </p><p>He can hear bass thumping through the entire floor, already. He’s late. And he’s kinda relieved that he is, ‘cause he wouldn’t be able to handle himself hogging Steve all fuckin’ night. ‘Cause he knows himself, knows he’d do that. </p><p>He knocks all polite, like he didn’t text Buckley when he made his way up, waits for the door to swing open. Flexes his fingers around the box he stole from Heather, the one big enough to fit the tickets. And the letter. His shirt is too damn right across his biceps, a size too small ‘cause he bought it like that. Bought it for Steve to look at, like he ever would. Like Steve’s fuckin’ glances aren’t just jealousy, friendly competition. <em> Fuck </em>. </p><p>It’s Steve who opens, ‘cause he’s a good host and he’s <em> nice </em> and knows how to act. He’s drunk, too. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, his hair all sex ruffled and sweaty instead of <em> just woke up </em>. He looks happy, eyes unfocused for a second before he sees him and goes,</p><p>“Billy, holy shit, you made it.” And he says it like he wouldn’t, like he’s got better things to do than to run around after his best <em> fucking </em> friend like the lovesick idiot he is. It would’ve been funny, if it was anyone but him. Anyone but Steve. </p><p>“‘Course, pretty boy, it’s your fuckin’ birthday.” His words are all breathless, ‘cause he’s being pulled into Steve’s shitty apartment with a hug, warm hands pulling him close, fingers wrapped around his wrist, tugging him into heat and too many bodies and <em> Steve </em> . “Happy birthday.” It’s said against Steve’s cheek, ‘cause they’re that fuckin’ close, Steve wrapping himself ‘round him in his own hallway, sweatslicked skin pressed <em> close </em>. His head reels from it, from the closeness and the smell of Steve and his fingers pressing into his muscles. </p><p>“Thanks, I can’t believe I’m like. An adult,” like he hasn’t been one for a fuckin’ while. Like he’d ever really be one. Like he’d ever be like the adults Billy’s been dealing with his whole fucking life. </p><p>Steve keeps him close for too fucking long, hug turning into one of those things he’ll play over and over and <em> fucking </em> over, mind twisting it into something <em> more </em>. Hands replaying Steve’s touches, begging for ‘em to be more. He holds him close, before goin’ “Oh shit, sorry, I’m all sweaty.”</p><p>He doesn’t sound apologetic, just looks at him all big, smile tugging at his lips, teeth digging into his soaked red lips. It’s probably from some kinda cocktail, some sweet shit Robin’s been making to impress chicks at every party she finds herself at. He doesn’t want it to be stained from something else. </p><p>“I-“ <em> I wanna lick the sweat off your body </em> “it’s all good,” <em> what the fuck is wrong with me. </em></p><p>“Come on, Robs got drinks in the kitchen.”</p><p>He gets dragged to the kitchen by the wrist like he hasn’t been there a thousand times. He prays to whatever fuckin’ god there is that Steve won’t let go of his hand. </p><p>It takes ten minutes for his shirt to get unbuttoned all the way, acrylic nails grasping for them, hands curling into the edges like they’re not the wrong hands. </p><p>It took him fifteen minutes to guilt over stealing Steve away, sixteen to find Steve’s lumpy couch and plant his ass too close to two chicks making out. One of ‘em flips him off when he stares for a second. He stares at Steve instead. </p><p>There’s a gap of another seven minutes before Steve notices him staring, turning away from Robin or whoever, eyes catching his. Smile growing like that, face crinkling up all <em> sweet </em> . And that smile’s coming closer, Steve moving away from birthday wishes and shots and closer to him. To <em> Billy </em>. </p><p>“Hey,” and he’s kinda shouting, breath warm and liquor sweet and <em> heady </em> right in his face. “Why’re you over here?” Steve's voice is all loose and hoarse from  too many shots, body kinda twisted over Billy’s, hands finding balance on the couch, right by his face. His cologne and sweat and <em> Steve </em> hits him right in the face. And it’s like a fuckin’ Pavlovian reaction, for his dick to kick in his pants. ‘Cause of that smell. ‘Cause of that tee shoved in the back of his closet, the one that doesn’t even smell like Steve anymore. That used to, that smelled like Steve and then like them, his come. <em> Fuck </em>, he’s messed up. </p><p>“Thought I’d give the birthday boy some space”, he doesn’t know if Steve can hear him over Post Malone or Drake or whatever garbage someones playin’ through those Bluetooth speakers Steve always plays his lofi shit outta. He doesn’t know if he can hear the lie. Hear the way it’s complete bullshit. Like he’d ever give Steve space. Like he ever <em> could </em>. </p><p>“Since when do I want space?” And he’s pouting, lips all pursed and brow wrinkled in that<em> I’m jokin’ around </em> way. He’s almost close enough to touch him, lips a breath away from Billy. He leans away a second, rush of air hitting Billy’s face, hands clenching, mind tryin’ to figure out what the fuck he did to push him away already. But he’s back, hand on Billy’s shoulder, knee hitting the couch. Ass in Billy’s fuckin’ <em> lap </em> . “Never want space from you,” it’s said into his shoulder, hair tickling his face. Breath tickling his neck. And he has to compose himself, has to calm the fuck down before his dick realizes Steve’s ass is <em> right </em> there. </p><p>“Looked like you were havin’ fun, though,” it’s hard to talk, when he’s got Steve so close. Hard to get over his <em> bullshit </em> even though Steve’s <em> always </em> close. Never close enough. </p><p>“I was. But you’re over here and I was over <em>there.</em> <em>So</em>, I went over here,” it’s the booze and the birthday high and maybe an actual high, making him all loose and loopy and- and cute. He’s cute, taller than him and folded in his lap. <em>His</em>. Outta all the girls he could pull into his own. </p><p>“You’re so drunk, pretty boy,” and it’s easy, to make it about Steve being drunk. To pretend like it’s not all on him. Like it’s not- </p><p>“Nope. ‘M not drunk. Not yet.” And maybe he’s not, but it’s hard to tell, when he’s twining his fingers into Billy’s hair. <em> Those goddamn fingers </em> . “Hey, you should give me your gift, before I get drunk. I know you have one, come on”, he’s talking again. Maybe he never stopped. It’s hard to focus on too many things at once. On Steve’s fingers and his whole damn <em> body </em> and his voice and his words and-</p><p>“Oh yeah? Isn’t that a little presumptuous?” Like the box isn’t wedged between him and Steve, by now. </p><p>“Presump- shut <em> up </em>. I know you have one. Let’s go to my room, it’s too loud here, shit.” And he crawls outta his lap with too much skill for how many shots he saw him down, hand grabbing his wrist like that. Again. </p><p>Steve’s room is down the hall, locked and barricaded with the ugly table Buckley bought at some thrift shop to impress the girl at the counter. He smiles all wobbly and big, drags Billy in. Shrugs at his unmade bed, covers pulled all lazy and pillow bent outta shape.</p><p>“So.” And he’s got his <em> I’m so innocent look </em> plastered on his stupid face, the little smile that does nothing but tell Billy he’s everything but innocent. “What’s in the box?” The box. The box he’s got clutched in his hands, tickets folded into a <em> stupid </em> time table for the San Diego city buses. ‘Cause he thought it was kinda funny, when he was high and sad and- and so <em> gay </em>. Kinda cute, maybe. Fuck. </p><p>“Open it.” And he kinda throws it at Steve, even though they’re real close. Sniggers a little at how Steve fumbles with it, presses it against his chest. </p><p>He holds his breath, when Steve’s fingers pull at string and tape. When he gets the lid off. When he smiles a little, all confused. Pulls out the papers. </p><p>“Oh,” and it’s all confused, lips all <em> oh </em>, too. Shiny, still. “This is great, just what I, uh, needed. Something I totally can’t just google, wow. Thank yo-“</p><p>“Oh my god, look inside,” and he’s too damn cute, folds it open, drops it all on his bed. Locks his eyes on Billy. </p><p>“Are those- are those plane tickets? Billy-” he’s picking them up, looks closer. Clutches them close. “<em> Billy </em>. San Diego? That’s-“</p><p>“Home, yeah. Figured mom should see the guy I keep talking about.” And fuck, if he talks about him. Talks and yearns and <em> pretends </em>.  </p><p>“You talk about me?”</p><p>“Well, I kinda have to. You’re everywhere man, she has to know about the guy who spilled coffee on my brand new shirt. Or in my car. Or on my fuckin’ <em> bed </em> . And like, the first week here? It was all about <em> Harrington </em> . She’s probably sick of hearing about your stupid hair, by now she has to see it, too. And like, it’s home, and here? <em> You’re </em> kinda home, man. I’m not kidding, for rea-“</p><p>“Shut up before I fucking kiss you, or something.” It’s too loud, in Steve’s dim room. Too loud, knocking something sideways in Billy’s brain. <em> Shut up before I fucking kiss you. Shut up before I fucking- fuck.  </em></p><p>Steve’s always been an affectionate guy. With his hugs and smiles and touches and his bullshit. He’s never really done this before. And it’s- he can’t tell how much of it is- is malice. How much of his stupid smile and <em> shut up before I fucking kiss you </em>, or something is a stupid fucking joke. How much of it is pity. Fuck. </p><p>“Don’t- you don’t have to do that, man.” And he tries to smile. Tries to joke. Tries not to clench his jaw too hard. “I wasn’t asking for shit, don’t- don’t do that. I can’t have you doing that.” <em> Can’t have you making this shit into a joke.  </em></p><p>“Billy, come on, it’s just-“ and his smile isn’t there anymore, eyes still big, hand reaching out for <em> something </em>. </p><p>“Fuck, I get it, okay? I get it but you can’t- you can’t do that. Not when you know, shit, you gotta know. I can’t do this, not with you.” And he can’t say it, won’t say it. Won’t <em> become </em> that, ‘cause Steve already fucking knows. </p><p>“It wasn’t-” it <em> wasn’t </em>. It wasn’t like that. It never fucking is. It never is what he wants it to be. Needs it to be. </p><p>“I know. Shit. I <em> know </em>. I should go.” And he should, shout get the fuck outta here before he does something stupid. Like cry, maybe. “Happy birthday.” He’s talking to the wall, stares at peeling paint to the right of Steve’s head. Turns before Steve can say anything. Before he can see the way his eyes are burning. He’s in the hall and pretends he doesn’t hear the,</p><p>“Happy <em> fucking </em> birthday, idiot.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>It’s not awkward, hanging at Steve’s the day after. It’s <em> not </em> , ‘cause he doesn’t let it be. Doesn’t ghost him or ignore their post b-day movie night. ‘Cause there’s no fuckin’ reason to. No reason to think about what the fuck happened, to replay Steve’s words and that smile and think about those hands. Drunk Steve is just <em> like </em> that. Affectionate and sweet and <em> I think I’m funny </em>. Doesn’t mean he’s sweet on him. No matter how many times his stupid brain twists those words until he thinks he might- it’s whatever. </p><p>It’s Robin who answers, wrapped in one of Steve’s hoodies, hair a mess and mascara smudged all over. Steve’s lent him that hoodie, before. Threw it at him when Billy was cold and drunk and <em> clingy </em>, for once. He’s not jealous of her. </p><p>Heather’s the only one who doesn’t look like a rat who bathed in jack and tequila, curls tight and dress tighter. She’s piling up pizza and leftover cake on a paper plate for him, smiles all sugarsweet at Robin when she asks for cake too. She scoops up some with her fingers like there aren’t bowls <em> right </em> there, leans across the coffee table to feed Robin with it. Jesus <em> fucking </em> Christ. Buckley makes some sorta noise, hand coming up to grip Billy’s bicep in some sorta secret signal, but he’s not really payin’ attention. ‘Cause <em> Steve </em>. Steve’s not doin’ shit, looks up from his phone to smile at him, looks right back down again. Doesn’t reach for him. Doesn’t hug him like he’s done every damn day since that first time he brought Billy over. </p><p>It’s like a cold shower. Like when he lived back <em> there </em> and Neil would shut off the hot water, some days. To keep him on his feet. It makes his skin prickle, radio static spreading all over. It’s not supposed to be awkward. He wasn’t supposed to make it- <em> fuck </em> . He won’t let it. Ignores Steve’s <em> non-Steve-ness </em> and lets Heather pick a movie even though it’s Robin's turn. </p><p>His nails are too short to break his skin, but the way he’s digging them into the palms of his hands the entire movie sure makes it seem like he tried. </p><p>Steve doesn’t hug him goodbye. Just smiles, like that. His chest <em> hurts </em> , in a way he knows too fuckin’ well. In that <em> Steve </em> way. He’d say his eyes are blurry like they get from too much wine, but he didn’t touch the shit Robin kept pouring him. </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, what the fuck is wrong with you?” It’s taken Robin five days and four unanswered snaps to ask him. And it’s their study time, <em> big brain time, </em> but he hasn’t done shit all day. He doesn’t even have insta open, <em> kingsteve </em> on the top of his recents. Just a laptop with no battery and a brain workin’ overtime. </p><p>“Nuthin’, why’re you so fuckin’ bitchy?” And it’s not okay, and it’s Billy who’s acting like a bitch, but it’s- it’s hard. To keep up the act, when it’s been five <em> fucking </em> days and a sprained ankle from when he stumbled and reached for <em> Steve </em>, who had his hands in his pockets and his eyes locked on the ground. </p><p>“Do you think I’m like, <em> actually </em> stupid? What’s up with you and Steve?” And he almost wants to say <em> who’s Steve? </em> Wants to act like a fuckin’ child, since he’s already acting like a goddamn clown. Running after a straight guy like a damn <em> dog </em>. </p><p>“Jesus, <em> what </em>?” And he- he can admit it to himself, but he’s not about to tell Robin that shit. Like he doesn’t have a sliver of dignity in his body. </p><p>“It’s actually worse than my parents divorce, fuck.” It’s a fuckin’ <em> thing </em> she does. Ties him and Steve to shit like parents and <em> couples </em> and bullshit, and it’s- it’s too much, after <em> shut up before I fucking- </em></p><p>“Don’t do that shit”. <em> Don’t joke about shit I can’t let go of.  </em></p><p>“Oh, what am <em> I </em> doing?” And she does that, sometimes. Pushes and <em> pushes </em> until you say something. Until she gets what she wants. It’s too fucking much. </p><p>“Don’t make it into your fuckin’ joke, fuck. Don’t make it into your trouble in paradise bullshit, Buckley.” <em> Don’t make it seem like Steve’d ever even- </em></p><p>“Woah, you’re the one <em> making </em> it into that shit, Hargrove. I’m just asking.” Just asking. Just asking about shit he’s been asking himself every goddamn night since Steve’s stupid birthday party and his stupid joke and Billy’s stupid fucking feelings. </p><p>“Well <em> don’t </em> , fuck, I’m not in the mood.” And he’s been workin on it, the getting angry thing. The yelling thing. But she just- she doesn’t <em> stop </em>, and nothing stops and he just needs it to fuckin’-</p><p>“What mood <em> are </em> you in then? If you can’t even <em> look </em> at Steve-“</p><p>“I said don’t, Jesus <em> fuck </em> . I’m tired and you keep worming your way into shit that you don’t get, and maybe no ones told you that’s not fucking <em> funny </em> , but just cut it out.” And he’s kinda yelling, kinda panting. Can feel eyes on him, in the library. <em> Fuck </em> . He <em> hates </em> it, the way he still does that. Still yells and lashes out like he hasn’t been working on that shit. Hates that he even cares. </p><p>Robin gets quiet, when she’s hurt. Stops with the laughs and sarcasm and bullshit, when someone’s stepped over the line. And he did, burnt it to the fuckin’ ground. She doesn’t even look at him, packs up her shit and leaves him staring up at her, feelin’ like a damn kid. </p><p>“I know you’re not mad at <em> me </em> right now, and I respect that. But you can’t say that shit to me. You can’t- screw you, fuck you, Hargrove”</p><p>Yeah. <em> Fuck you, Hargrove.  </em></p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>It’s kind of a bitch, realizing how often he hangs at Steve’s. How many hours of his days, how many days of his weeks that go to Steve and their cute little friendgroup he kinda loves but- but kinda fucked up, too. Actually, fuck that. He didn’t ruin <em> shit </em> , ‘cause he still shows up and he smiles and laughs and ignores the way Heather smears lipstick all over Robin and the way Robin keeps asking him if she should <em> go </em> for it. <em> He’s </em> not the one who stopped, averted from routine like they can’t just pretend that everything is fucking <em> fine </em>. </p><p>That shit is all Steve. It’s Steve who stopped fuckin’ <em> touching </em> him. Stopped smiling for real and started staring at his phone all the goddamn time. Like there’s shit on there they can’t give him. That <em> Billy </em> can’t-</p><p>It’s on Steve, and he can’t do shit about the fact that he can’t handle Billy’s- Billy’s whatever. So he’s on his stupid doorstep again, ‘cause they do their stupid movie nights like every other fuckin’ night, and they’re <em> always </em> at Steve’s ‘cause of his dumb expensive TV and lumpy couch where he sat in Billy’s lap like he- </p><p>It’s Steve who opens, hand freezing on the handle like he forgot Billy’s- forgot that Billy’s a part of this shit. </p><p>“Hey.” And it’s awkward, sayin’ <em> hey </em> like he’s not addicted to the way Steve used to say hi with a hand in his hair, a kiss on his cheek. He’s fuckin’ pathetic. </p><p>“Hi.” It’s too <em> fuckin’ </em> awkward. </p><p>There’s no one inside, yet. It’s him and Steve and the four feet of <em> nothing </em> between them. He sits down before Steve tells him he can’t, or something, reaches for the remote, ‘cause he’s not the one making shit awkward. He had his shit under control, before <em> Steve </em> came in and realized stuff he couldn’t handle. </p><p>“Uhm” and it’s hard, not to look at Steve. Not to get drawn into him like a bug. But Steve stopped looking at him, so. “The girls aren’t coming, something came up. I kinda guessed they’d text you or something.” <em> I kinda guessed I wouldn’t have to see you.  </em></p><p>“Don’t you want me here?” He’s not an insecure person, he knows what he has and how to use it. But it’s <em> Steve </em>, and he’s been treatin’ him like a stranger all fucking week because of a kiss that didn’t even happen. </p><p>“No, no it’s fine.” Steve gets out, and it’s not, it’s not <em> fine </em> , and Steve won’t even <em> look </em> at him because of whatever Billy’s got mixed up in his fuckin’ head. </p><p>“Is it?” His voice is all hard and done and so fuckin’ tired, ‘cause Steve can’t even <em> pretend- </em> he can’t even- “Is it fine?”</p><p>“Yeah?” And he’s doing his little laugh, the <em> I don’t wanna be here </em> laugh. He knows he’s tugging at his hair, too. If he’d turn around and look. “What are you even talking about, of course it’s fine.”</p><p>“Then why the fuck are acting like this?” Billy’s talking like he has any right to say shit, and t feels good, bringing shit up even though he’s not supposed to, ignoring every fuckin’ social code ever just to ask Steve what the <em> fuck </em> his problem is. It was Steve who- Billy didn’t even-</p><p>“I’m not-“ <em> you’re the one who’s acting. </em>He’s always the one who’s fuckin’ acting. </p><p>“You can’t even look at me.” And it’s kinda hypocritical, ‘cause Billy’s been staring at drywall until like a second ago. Until he needed to make the fucking point. </p><p>“Shit, why’re you-“ Steve’s sayin’ it like <em> Billy’s </em> the one who stopped fuckin’ looking and touching and acting all <em> friendly </em>. Steve looks like doesn’t wanna do this, but fuck, Billy wants to, now. Can’t go on without it. </p><p>“You didn’t have to- I <em> left </em> , shit. I fuckin’ handed it to you, you could just pretend nothing happened. I’d never- if you hadn’t <em> done </em> that shit you would never even know.” And Billy knows he sounds angry, too fuckin’ real, and it’s all unraveling, cards bein’ thrown on the table like Billy wasn’t the one who said things are <em> fine </em>. </p><p>“I kinda <em> had </em> to know, what the fuck? Shit. It wasn’t even- I didn’t mean it-“ Steve’s talking all confused, and Billy knows it’s not- he’s not naive, knows he didn’t mean it. Never fuckin’ does. </p><p>“Fuck, I fuckin’ <em> got </em> that. And I- I know that’s just how you are, but i can’t have you doin’ that shit when I’m-“ <em> when I’m the only one who wants it. </em></p><p>“Hold up, just how I <em> am </em> ? What the fuck does that mean?” And it’s hard to get Steve to sound pissed, to get him past that awkward <em> why’re you disrupting the peace </em> smile. And it’s not a <em> couch conversation </em> , hasn’t been since Billy brought up shit even though they weren’t supposed to, even though <em> Steve’s </em> been ruining shit. Like Billy didn’t ruin it the second he laid eyes on Steve. </p><p>“You know what I fuckin’ mean, don’t play like that. And it’s <em> fine </em> , whatever, just don’t do it at me, not when-“ <em> not when you know how fucking weak I am.  </em></p><p>“What the fuck.” Steve’s kinda shouting, throwing his hands up, jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder he can laugh all humorless like that. Billy’s standing up, and it’s a fuckin’ trainwreck, this whole conversation, and it’s doing nothing except making Steve angry and makin’ his own heart hurt. “What the <em> fuck </em> . Outta all the people I thought would be assholes about this, I didn’t think you’d- that’s my bad though, for thinking- <em> shit </em> . Fuck you, man. I’m not gonna fucking <em> molest </em> you, or some shit. I stopped, I <em> stopped </em> ‘cause you pulled away and I can read a fuckin’ room, okay? I don’t know what more you fuckin’ want”</p><p>”Harrington, you’re- I didn’t <em> say </em> that. I’m just- fuck-“ it’s a goddamn <em> trainwreck </em> , and Steve’s not making sense, talking like Billy’s the one who- like Steve could <em> ever- </em></p><p>“You still fuckin’ <em> meant </em> it, Jesus. I’m sorry, okay? I’m <em> sorry </em> for misreading signals and fucking shit up, I’m just doing what you- what’s fuckin’ <em> acceptable </em> . You didn’t want me to- you made it <em> clear </em>, why’re you bitching about it when you’re the one who-“</p><p>“‘Cause I can’t fuckin’ <em> take </em> you touching me like that when I- when I know it’s not the same, <em> fuck </em> .” And he’s yelling, creating waves like he doesn’t know how dangerous it can be. <em> He </em> can be. But it’s- he’s never been good at controlling his emotions, when it really matters. And it fucking <em> matters </em> , ‘cause its Steve fuckin’ Harrington. It’s always Steve <em> fucking </em>Harrington. </p><p>“I kinda had to fucking <em> try </em> though, right? Fucking birthday luck or some shit. But I was <em> wrong </em> , and I kinda hoped it wouldn’t- I would’ve just stopped and we’d be <em> fine </em>, I’d get over it.” And it’s almost impressive, how Steve just- doesn’t see it. Doesn’t get that his stupid fucking joke went way too far before he even opened his stupid, too shiny fuckin’ mouth. </p><p>“Why’d you have to get <em> over </em> it- fuck, <em> I’ll </em> get over my bullshit, okay? You don’t have to stop with your straight bullshit jokes just ‘cause I can’t-“ His breathing is too loud in own ears, and he knows his voice is fuckin’ louder. Steve cutts him off anyways. </p><p>“When the fuck did I <em> joke </em>, shit. Fucking- I’m bi? I didn’t- I've been dreaming about kissing you since the first time I fucking saw you, Billy.”</p><p>“What?” There’s no air in his fucking lungs, anymore. No fucking anything, ‘cause Steve just- </p><p>“That’s the fucking thing, right? I couldn’t keep my hands to myself and now we’re <em> here- </em> “ And it feels like walls are folding down on him with every word Steve says, and he just said- he just <em> said </em> that and they’re fuckin’ yelling at each other over a kiss that didn’t <em> happen </em>. </p><p>“Shut up. Fuck- are you serious?” And Billy needs to know, needs to fucking ask ‘cause they’ve been <em> arguing </em> about shit, and he’s been missing out on sleep for <em> weeks </em> just to replay a joke that doesn’t seem that fucking funny anymore. </p><p>“<em> Yes </em> I’m- that’s your whole fucking deal.” And it’s not Billy’s whole fucking deal, it’s kinda- <em> fuck </em> . It’s everything he’s ever dreamt of, and they’re so fuckin’ stupid, and Steve’s lips are all wet from how he keeps biting them when he’s upset and- he really, <em> really </em> doesn’t want him to be upset. Not when- </p><p>“Fuck, Steve.” <em> Shut up before I fucking kiss you.  </em></p><p>“I mean that’s kinda the opposite of what you-“ Steve’s talking, but he’s not really listening, ‘cause Steve’s lips are something else and Billy just really needs to- needs Steve. </p><p>“Shut up before I fucking kiss you, or something.” And it’s like the cheesiest thing he’s ever done, and its even worse that he’s admitting that he memorized the stupid line. Admitting to replaying it in his head over and <em> over </em> and making up hidden motives that aren’t that made up, turns out. He throws Steves words right back at him, makes those eyes go so big. Sees those hands tremble a little. </p><p>“Billy.” And there’s so much there, so much in Steves <em> Billy </em> that he kinda needs to take a moment. Wonders how the fuck he’s never heard it before. </p><p>“<em> Steve </em> .” He sounds fuckin’ destroyed, sounds like he’s begging, and he is. <em> Kiss me kiss me kiss me </em> . Over and over and <em> fucking </em> over. </p><p>“Fuck-”</p><p>Steve’s on him before Billy manages to take another damn breath. Kisses him. The force of Steve crashing into him has his legs giving in, has them tumbling down onto the sofa ‘cause he’s got an arm wrapped around Steve. And shit, he’s never letting go. It’s all teeth and rough and <em> desperate </em> , spitslick and everything they’ve been crying’ about for ages when they could’ve <em> had </em> this. When he could’ve had Steve straddling his legs like this, hands gripping his hair, lips still on his. Those <em> fucking </em> lips. Steve’s tongue is tracing his and he’s in heaven, or something. Maybe it’s hell. He doesn’t care, with the way Steve presses himself closer, groaning against him when Billy gets a hand under his tee, splays it across his back. Pushes, just ‘cause he can.</p><p>“Billy, oh my god, we could’ve been doing this the whole fucking time.” Steve pants it out against his cheek, fingers curled against the other. And he’s right, laughs with it, makes Billy laugh a little too. </p><p>“We’ll make up for lost time.” And he says it against Steves lips, ‘cause its been too long since they kissed, since their <em> first </em> fuckin’ kiss, and he needs more. Will always need more, when it comes to Steve Harrington. </p><p>“That’s like, literally impossible.” and he’s doin’ it on purpose, leans just outta reach, hands gripping him for balance. Like Billy’s ever let him go. And he chases right after him, never stopped running after Steve goddamn Harrington. </p><p>“Watch me,” <em> kiss </em> “fucking,” <em> kiss </em> “try.”</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Steve complains about the weird paper on the headrest of the shitty economy seats for a good twenty minutes just to make Billy laugh and call him <em> princess </em> . Just to make him promise that they’ll be flyin’ business, soon enough. He takes a shitty pic of the wing and the blanket of clouds before stealing Billy’s actual blanket, wraps it around himself. Wraps himself around Billy. And he’s never been good with flights, but Steve keeps snuffing into his ear, lips tickling his jaw like that, and he’s kinda high off the feeling of <em> them </em> . Off the fact that he didn’t even know they’d <em> get </em> this, three weeks and too many goddamn emotions ago. </p><p>And San Diego is a place he’s got so many mixed emotions about that seeing Steve <em> smile </em> like that kinda makes him tear up, on the shitty city bus they had to get on to get to their shitty tourist trap motel. The one close enough for them to have breakfast and time to roll around on a hotel bedspread like they haven’t done that everywhere they can lately, before opening hours at the rehab. Before Steve meets his mom, who he’s been working real hard to think about as that again. As <em> family </em>, after all the shit they went through. She’s gonna meet the guy he’s been calling his for way too fuckin’ long, and it’s- it’s terrifying. It’s the best thing he’s ever done. It’s a big step, or whatever. Progress and self acceptance and love. A whole lotta love. It’s- whatever. Its the way he can kinda feel Steve’s lips on him, always.</p><p>“I didn’t even know we’d get this, after all that shit. Thought I’d never see <em> SD </em> after all.” Steve’s talking all slow and smiley, head turned a little so he can look right at Billy. The sun is setting behind them, and the street they’re walking down is blessedly empty. It’s kinda fuckin cinematic, walking down summer hot roads with Steve, checking out the <em> nice </em> yards and houses and fences Billy spent a lotta time hating. </p><p>“Shut up, I’d take you even if you hated me, I already paid for the tickets.” And he doesn’t really know if its true. If he’d suck it up and deal with his mom seeing the boy he kinda called his when he clearly fucking wasn’t. But like. He’s Billys now, kinda was the whole damn time, so it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter when he’s got Steve <em> right </em> there.</p><p>“Fuck off, I didn’t hate you. Dramatic fuckin’-“ Steve’s laughing, shoving Billy away with his shoulder, walks a little closer to the curb, just to be like that. </p><p>“Oh, <em> I </em> was the dramatic one, you’re really tellin’ me, baby?” Billy’s voice is too damn soft, but its Steve’s fault, its all on <em> Steve </em> for telling him how weak he is for being called <em> baby </em> . His fault for <em> moaning </em> that confession against his neck when he had a hand curled around Billy’s dick and another twisted in his hair. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” Steve can’t stop <em> smiling </em> , teeth all bright and lips stretched tight, eyes crinkling and fucking sparkling. It makes him too fuckin’ proud, being the cause of that smile. Fuck, it makes his chest ache, a little. In that <em> Steve </em> way. </p><p>“Hey, why’re you so far away?” And he’s really not, a good foot away, maybe. But Billy’s greedy and Steve could be so much fucking closer. If Billy has to reach out to touch him he’s not close e<em> -fucking </em>-nough. </p><p>“I’m right here.” And he’s laughing out the words, all honey and spice and everything fuckin’ nice in his life. “I thought <em> I </em> was the clingy one.”</p><p>“How can I <em> not </em> be clingy when you’re <em> you </em>? Kinda crazy to ask that of me. Never gonna let you go, pretty boy.” And Billys been saying all sorts of sappy shit, and it's on Steve, but he doesn’t really seem like he’s complaining, when he lets himself be pulled into a hug. Right there on the street. Tugs him into his arms, lets Steve trip over his own Nike’s to nuzzle into his neck. </p><p>“That a threat?” And the words imprint on his neck like kisses, Steve's hand coming up to clutch his bicep. His cologne is hitting him right in the face, that subtle but fuckin’ <em> rich </em> one. It makes him weak in the knees. Makes him wanna bottle Steve up and keep him, like a freak. Like he doesn't have him already. </p><p>“You decide, you de-fucking-cide, Steve.” And if Billy was one of those artsy fuckers, he’d probably imagine a camera rolling back, makin’ them smaller, sun burning everything into peach and orange and pink. They’re close enough for Billy to count Steve’s eyelashes. He’d do it if he cared less about them tumbling down onto graveland asphalt. Steve’s arm is heavy around his shoulders,fingers tickling the shell of his ear. He stops them, just so he can press his lips to Stevs, for a second. Or two. He doesn’t really keep track. “It’s all you ever want it to be.''                </p><p>Steve’s eyes are locked on his, all honey and this soft shimmer and <em> always there </em> hunger. He breathes in, and he feels like home.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>